


dusklight

by JamtheDingus



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: A little, Dog Tags, M/M, Minor Injuries, Pining Keith (Voltron), Post-Season/Series 07, for keith anyway, keith gets ROBBED
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 07:06:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16949307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JamtheDingus/pseuds/JamtheDingus
Summary: Keith knocks his head back against the locked door. Blood rushes back up his nasal cavity, nearly drowning him, but he allows himself to wallow in the self-pity (and red-tinged mucus) for a bit longer.Footsteps echo down the hall, just one pair of feet, and Keith shoves his shirt back up against his nose, readying the glare he’d shot at a few cadets a few hours past. He’s sure it’s not them— Galra purple eyes are terrifying at 3 a.m.— but it was still a public hallway.But it’s not a cadet, not a nurse sent to come drag him to medbay, not even a ghost come to punish him. It’s Shiro.





	dusklight

**Author's Note:**

> hiiiii its 4:35 am im very tired i hope u ejnoy

Keith nurses his bloody nose in the dark of the hallway, locked out of his own room, and tries to convince himself the sting in his nose is from the fracture and not from the tears building up.

He’s not a young ‘punk’ anymore, but he’s right back where he started anyway. He’s older, _wiser_ — or he was supposed to be— but being a defender of the universe didn’t stop him from getting mugged on the side of the road in the middle of the night— because of course it wouldn’t. No one was immune, and Keith was stupid.

He’d been lost in thought so deeply that they’d managed to tackle him to the ground easy. The rest after that was less easy, and he’s sure he’d given them back twice as much as they’d done to him— knife wound to the thigh and bloody nose, obviously— but they got away with his wallet and his keys, and

His dog tags. Shiro’s dog tags, actually, because they’d gone to a dinky little store and gotten them privately engraved, maybe as a joke or maybe as something more. But now it was gone, lost to the abyss of petty crime, and Keith’s neck felt ripped bare without it. He should’ve kept it safe, kept it in his room and hidden out of sight until he needed it, but he was too cocky these days.

It was a wake-up call, but he wishes it hadn’t been so expensive.

He knows if he turns to Shiro— goes to find him and ask him to nurse him back to health— then Shiro won’t stop until he gets back what Keith lost. It won’t be worth it, whatever resources Shiro spends, least of all his time, but he wouldn’t care— and that’s why Keith is having a mental breakdown in the middle of the hall of the dorms. He didn’t even _live_ here, technically. More of a courtesy for them, the paladins, to always have somewhere to come back to, but Keith was pretty sure that the sheets they’d been given were still stacked neat at the foot of the bed, waiting to be slid onto the mattress.

Keith slept at home with Shiro, cuddled against the cold under a plush duvet, pressing his cold against Shiro to suck away. And he always did, even if he pinched and tickled Keith’s sides in revenge.

Every time Keith remembers one moment out of the hundreds like that, he’d always been wearing those damn dog tags. Maybe it was karma, for showing off what wasn’t even his— Shiro’d never officially made a ‘statement’ after all. Never said Keith was his, or that he was Keith’s, and Keith usually wasn’t allowed such great things anyway.

Keith knocks his head back against the locked door. Blood rushes back up his nasal cavity, nearly drowning him, but he allows himself to wallow in the self-pity (and red-tinged mucus) for a bit longer.

Footsteps echo down the hall, just one pair of feet, and Keith shoves his shirt back up against his nose, readying the glare he’d shot at a few cadets a few hours past. He’s sure it’s not them— Galra purple eyes are terrifying at 3 a.m.— but it was still a public hallway.

But it’s not a cadet, not a nurse sent to come drag him to medbay, not even a ghost come to punish him. It’s Shiro.

He’s haggard, half put-together like a ripped page in a photo album. He’s stressing the edges of his hairline as he turns the corner, and his eyes— those beautiful cloud-grey eyes—lock onto Keith immediately.

He has blood on his shirt.

Keith shoves himself from the floor, letting his uniform drop flat against his belly again. He can feel his hackles raising like a threatened dog— like a feral cat ready to defend its own.

“What happened?”

He’s surprised at how rough his voice sounds, but it makes sense. Choking on blood and forcing yourself to stop crying does that to a voice box.

Shiro has a million things to say to that question. Keith can tell. He darts forward, and then forces himself to slow. Marches forward to crowd into Keith’s space, and just hovers. He says none of it.

His palms press warm circles against Keith’s cheeks— filling them red as they pleasantly heat up. Garrison halls were kept cool for some reason or another, and Keith had subjected himself to it for a number of hours.

Keith lets himself lean into the touch— the friendly touch— and doesn’t resist as Shiro checks him over. He finds the scratchy, jagged knife wound on his thigh, and sounds as if he’s gotten physically punched in the gut as soon as he passes over it. Keith tries not to flinch away as he’s examined, but Shiro is gentle enough that he doesn’t need to.

“What happened—” Shiro repeats, dropping to his knees to study the injury. Keith had wrapped his t-shirt, the one he wore underneath his uniform, around it, so it’d long ago stopped bleeding. “— is that you’re an idiot.”

Keith flinches at that, instead.

“I know.” He agrees, thinking back to the way they’d jumped him. If only he’d been watching his back instead of having his head in the clouds— if only he’d brought his knife instead of trusting Earth’s streets. He _knew_ better.

“I don’t think you do know.” Shiro says. When he stands again, he’s all sadness, eyes red and lips pink as he worries them with his teeth. “Why didn’t you come find me? Why are you _here_?”

The accusations sting, and the tone is like a cleaver against bone. “Didn’t wanna worry you.”

If Shiro were a weaker man— if he hadn’t died and been brought back to life and fought a dictator and a sadist and saved the planet— he probably would have stumbled back and fainted on the spot.

He repeats Keith’s words back, quiet. When he reaches for Keith again, the grip is stronger. He circles his arm across Keith’s shoulders and tugs him close, helping him balance even though Keith didn’t really need it.

“Sorry.” Keith says, only partly so. “They took your.... Your tags.”

He’s proud of himself for not choking on the words, even as they twine up in his throat like weeds.

Shiro goes quiet, lost for the briefest second. It almost disappoints Keith— cements what he’s already assumed and made true in his mind, but Shiro lights up again. “You really kept them?”

“Of course I did.” He says, aghast.

He steps wrong on his leg and he goes down without a pained noise. Shiro catches him before he face-plants, but his hands shake as they press against the small of his back.

“Tried to, anyway.” Keith adds, teeth gritting.

“Oh, _Keith._ ”

Shiro stands again, hooking himself further under Keith’s arm. He carries him like that, drags him some of the time as the rush of pain drains Keith of all his strengths and all filters.

He trusts Shiro not to take advantage of that— knows he wouldn’t.

Kosmo is waiting outside the front step of their studio apartment. Shiro had insisted on not needing that much space, and Keith had liked having the open floor plan— less dangerous that way— and Kosmo liked being able to watch them from every angle.

Keith is near the point of passing out when Shiro drags him inside. Once they’re past the threshold, and there’s more room, He hooks Keith’s legs over one arm to carry him easier through the living room.

He’s laid on the bed, bloody mess and all, and Shiro leaves him.

Keith doesn’t panic, only because he can see Shiro’s figure— blearily, but enough— as he whirlwinds through the bathroom.

He returns with towels and painful spray to keep away the infection— and a shirt of his for Keith to change into. Keith struggles to sit up, to peel himself from the cloud-pillows he’d sunken into, but Shiro easily urges him back down with one touch.

Keith drifts, and Shiro fixes him. He wipes away the blood, picks at the lines that had dried and crisped at his nose, and washes it away with a warm rag. He passes his lips across Keith’s cracked ones to kiss them better.

Keith didn’t want to be oblivious, but he didn’t want to read into it, either. Not if Shiro would pull away— not if it would get wrenched from him after dangling so close.

Shiro wipes away the hot tears that spill over, and Keith is grateful that the heat blends in with the washcloth.

When he’s wiped up, and Keith has nodded off a couple times, only to come back to life when he sinks too deep and finds himself scared of falling, Shiro still stays.

He watches Keith doze, watches him come out of it ready to fight, and watches him accept the gentle touch to his chest to calm down.

Shiro aches all over, and he wishes he could take away the hurt in Keith, too.

He drags his finger through the thick, long hair that’d grown out of Keith’s head. It’s not a surprise— it’d always been thick when he was younger, but it’s smooth and easy to card through, and Keith’s shoulders relax as he scratches along the scalp.

Shiro braids it up. Into something loose, just to keep it out of the way, and it’s messy in the back where he doesn’t want to lift too much and disturb the lulling rest Keith gets in the early morning dusklight.

When he finishes, Keith’s irises peek at him from beneath his lashes, swimming and dark. Shiro gathers his hand up and squeezes, palm to palm until it feels like Keith isn’t going to float off and disappear on him.

“I’m sorry I lost your dog tags.” Keith whispers. Ashamed.

Shiro fingers at the blood spot on his shirt. Digs around his pocket. Plucks a chain of silver and dangles it in front of Keith’s face before he sets it down against Keith’s shivering palm.

He doesn’t explain how he got it, doesn’t explain the wallet and keys the he plucks from his chest pocket, either, and Keith isn’t sure he wants to know.

From the back of his mind, he feels a self-satisfied rumble echo. The Black Lion Paladin and the Atlas-Captain used to be the same person, after all.

Keith lets the trinket dangle in front of his face, would be shocked silent if not for the unbidden whimpers that build up.

“I— didn’t realize you still had them.” Shiro admits. _Ashamed_. Keith’s were probably lost to space, taken and burned along with everything else Shiro had had on him when he was stolen from Pluto.

“Always.” Keith breathes. He presses the engraved metal against his lips, breathing in the sharp tang of aluminum. “I love you.”

It comes out reflexively, brought forth by the habitual practice Keith had taken to when he was much younger, and he’s mortified how easy it slips out.

Shiro sighs. He rests his head against the bone of Keith’s hip, savoring the heat Keith radiates. “I love you, too.”

“Like a brother.” Keith replies, wryly. He presses the tags to his chest, to calm his heartbeat.

A gentle touch, to brush away the hair that’d fallen out of its braid.

“I love you,” Shirogane Takashi repeats, “The way you love me.”

He’s sure of it, from the way he says it. Keith didn’t want to be oblivious but— he shakes as Shiro kisses him again, soul heavy and spilling like an overflowed pool.

Kosmo climbs onto the bed to settle beside him, staring him directly down to the core. Keith lets his head fall back, and Shiro pulls away with one more squeeze. The covers tuck across Keith’s chest; the shirt useless now, because Shiro isn’t sure how he’d get it on without disturbing him again.

Keith wasn’t sure how he was allowed to have something so great— something so precious as _love_ from the one he loved, too, but

The dog tags were a pretty good reminder.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on twitter @jam_spicy thank uuuuuuuu


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